un calor de cuerpo y corazon
by alstroemerit
Summary: canada visits cuba, and cuba shows him some ways to deal with the caribbean heat. thing is, canada's feeling a different kind of heat.


The Caribbean sun beats down his neck, heat seeping into the culturally-inappropriate Hawaiian shirt was wearing.

Cuba's place was hot, Canada knew that, but he kept forgetting just how hot it was. He stood just outside the airport gates, the humid air sticking to his skin. The tourist-y palm trees swayed in the wind (though, if there even was a breeze, he certainly couldn't feel it), and dozens of people filtered around him speaking different tones and shades of Spanish that he could barely understand. He was wearing his glasses, but still, everything around him was blurred, shimmering and waving in the heat.

Canada dressed as lightly as he could've-he didn't own much that was appropriate for tropical weather. Still, his shirt was beginning to stick to him, and his shorts were stifling his thighs. In a mad daze, he thought of taking them off, right then and there.

There's a bead of sweat trying to drip down his jawline, inching downwards in a way that nearly drove him crazy. His brow furrows, both in concentration and annoyance, as he gets ready to call Cuba and say a polite-but-firm _Where are you?_ Just as the thought of doing so comes, though, Cuba pulls up right in front of him.

And Cuba is smiling broadly, eyes shining as he calls out "Ey, Canada!"

Canada is startled, made slow and a bit stupid by the weather, but smiles just as wide. "Hey!"

He's louder than normal, but in the lively, noisy atmosphere of Havana his words are drowned out. Cuba's car has got to be decades old, he knows, it was well-kept, hood gleaming under the blazing sun. Canada gave up all-hopes of AC, though. He clambers into the car a little awkwardly. The leather seats-which are in perfect condition, he notes- stick immediately to the back of his thighs.

Cuba claps him on the back good-naturedly, nearly knocking the wind out of Canada.

"Glad you could come, man!

He looks good-better than he did back in the last world meeting, at least. Comfortable. At ease. The sun shines on him, highlighting the hues of amber in his brown eyes, playing with the shades of his dark skin and giving him a nearly golden cast. Canada knew he looked pale and pink and flushed in comparison. Cuba's better dressed than he is-a simple button up, shorts, a tank top. He has a little gold cross on a chain, laying right there, on his breast bone; surrounded by an expanse of brown skin. It catches the light, just like everything else about Cuba. Cuba turns to him, grinning, and Canada's previous thoughts are knocked out of his head.

The radio is playing something slow, with trumpets and easy-strumming guitars. They drive past colorful little cement houses, and clusters of palm trees, and crowds of lively, singing, shouting people. It makes Canada think that he's in a movie, or a biopic, or something. Cuba catches him staring out into space.

"You like it, right?" Cuba accosts him, pride and infectious joy in his voice. Canada finds himself feeling giddy as well.

"Of course I do," he responds, giving a shy smile. His eyes flit from the painfully-blue sky, to the glittering, endless sea on the horizon, to Cuba himself. "It's beautiful here."

Cuba smiles even broader at that, giving Canada a flash of perfect white teeth before turning his eyes back onto the road.

"Glad you think so," he chuckles. "I mean, I already knew, but I like hearing you say it."

Canada smiles at that, knowing just how proud Cuba was of his land.

"Issa lot warmer than your place, that's for sure," continues Cuba, shuddering at the mere memory of his first trip to Canada.

"I don't know," mumbles Canada. He remembers the visit hazily, thinking of the way Cuba came to him bundled in every jacket he owned and cursed at him until he got warm enough. A soft smile played upon his lips at the memory. "Pretty as it is here, I think I prefer the cold." He absentmindedly raises a hand to his forehead, wiping away an embarrassing amount of sweat.

"What, ya can't handle a bit of heat?" replies Cuba, teasing. He steals another look at the blond, taking in the pink, flushed skin and the few strands of hair sticking to Canada's face. Canada averts his eyes, feeling even hotter under Cuba's gaze.

"Oh shit. You really can't." Cuba's voice loses its teasing quality, coming closer to surprise and disbelief.

"Don't say it like that!" Canada protests quietly, almost whining. He knows that Cuba is right, but doesn't have the nerve to give in. "You're making me sound weak."

"I never said that!"

"You were thinking it."

Cuba shakes his head, dreadlocks moving gently. His lips quirk into an amused smirk.

"Of course. I'm makin' fun of you right now. The second you leave I'll call up all my friends n' tell them how your snow-covered ass-"

Canada bangs his head against the headrest, sprawling out his overheated limbs and closing his eyes out of exasperation.

"I'm too hot to argue with you right now," he mutters, tone gently playful. He's aware of how childish he's being, but the heat has sapped all care he might have had. With his eyes closed, he's even more aware of the stickiness of the leather seats, of the way his damp shirt clings to him. He hears Cuba laugh next to him; a deep, rumbling sound that's loud enough to compete with America's. (Not that he'd ever tell Cuba that. He wants to make it back home in one piece.)

"Then I'll get you something to, uh, cool down with. Fuck am I supposed to show you 'round Havana when you're dying of a heat stroke?" Cuba's voice had a certain edge in it, one that only came in when he was being particularly determined.

Canada's eyes snap open, and he feels the embarrassment wash over him like a wave. His insides coil at the realization of how ridiculous he sounded-especially to Cuba, who had been born and bred in this weather.

"You really don't have to!" he protests meekly. "I don't want to make you do anything for me-"

"You're not making me do anything." Cuba responds, matter-of-fact. Before he knows it, they're pulling over, a shaved ice stand visible in the distance.

"I'm sorry I was so dramatic! Honestly, it's not even that hot!" Canada pleads, voice an octave or two higher.

Cuba had already gotten out of the car. He leaned over the edge, giving Canada a warm smile. The sun was positioned just perfectly so that Cuba was illuminated by its glow, appearing almost holy in Canada's travel-weary, heat-warped mind.

"You're kinda cute when you apologize like that," he says, in that easy, unbothered way of his. He ignored the way Canada blushed at that (though, it was likely unnoticeable on his already-red skin). "I'm just tryna help you out. Accept the help, man."

"But-"

"_Relajate, asere!"_ calls back Cuba, leaving Canada alone and confused.

Cuba comes back with two shaved ices in hand, and promptly shoves one into Canada's hand.

"Here. _Granizado._ A local specialty."

"_G-granizado_..." Canada repeats softly, hearing Cuba snicker at his pronunciation.

"Close enough," Cuba laughs, before getting back on the road.

It's delightfully cold in his hand, with cool drops of water falling onto his forearm and exposed thigh. He takes a spoonful and nearly cries at the sticky-sweetness of it. The cold is nearly painful after being submerged into warmth for so long, but he welcomes it.

"Why pineapple?" asks Canada, words muffled by the spoon still in his mouth. Cuba brings his mouth away from his own granizado, licking his lips slowly. His lips are stained a bright, glistening red, meaning that his was cherry flavored. For a second, Canada wants nothing more than to find out what it tastes like for himself. But only for a second.

"'Cuz it's yellow. Like your hair," he replies simply. Canada blinks slowly.

"Okay." He doesn't question Cuba's though process any further, instead focusing on savoring the tropical taste on his tongue. He was suddenly very aware of the locks of hair hanging at the edge of his vision, no doubt glowing nearly white in the sunlight.

"What? Don't tell me it's stupid," Cuba's almost bashful, now, lips twisting with a smidgen of worry.

"I don't think it's stupid," The words are spilling out of Canada's syrup-coated lips. "I think it's sweet."

Cuba makes a choked sound half-way between a sigh and gasp, and looks away, something akin to shyness on his face.

"Sure, whatever you say, man." He coughs out, eyes set very firmly on the road.

"Where are we going next?" asks Canada softly, mind now functioning properly (somewhat).

"I was just gonna take you back to my place and leave all the tourist stuff for tomorrow," replied Cuba, casually. "You don't mind, right?"

Canada feels the slightest bit of anxiety thrum through him at the thought of going to Cuba's

home. It almost feels like an invasion, a voyeuristic look into his private life. But Cuba wanted him there, invited him with wide eyes and a wider smile, and he could do nothing but go along with in.

"Of course I don't," Canada replies quietly. He sets his gaze on the granizado in his hand, which was becoming more and more liquid by the second.

They reach Cuba's home soon enough. The sun has nearly set by then; the sky a wonderous shade of red-pink that casted a dreamy glow over everything.

Cuba's house is modest, a small two-story home painted orange. The inside is filled with walls of bookshelves, piles of records, and random knick-knacks from the centuries beyond, revealing just how sentimental Cuba really was. There's Taino artwork hung up on the walls, next to framed photos of Cuba and other Caribbean nations, that Canada can't help but smile at (smile, because feeling jealous would be wrong).The air is filled with the scent of tobacco and spice and something sweet that Canada can't place, but likes nonetheless.

"It ain't much, I know," mumbles Cuba, fiddling with one of his dreads as he stands awkwardly.

"No, it's nice!" Canada reassures him. He's almost giddy, oddly excited at the fact that his friend of nearly two centuries has let him get closer to him. "I like it."

Cuba's lips go from a twisted frown to a shy smile.

"Forreal? Thanks!" He's brighter, almost blinding. "I was thinkin' we could just hang out on the balcony, and just hang out and watch the sunset, or somethin' like that."

Canada beams, and lets Cuba lead him further into the home.

Night falls as they sit on Cuba's balcony, watching the streets below. The sun had set, but it wasn't any cooler. It was worse, honestly-it was muggy, and moist, and Canada wasn't any better equipped to deal with wet heat than dry heat. He fans himself uselessly with a hand, listening absentmindedly as Cuba goes on about all the tourist traps and cultural monuments he wants him to see.

Tobacco smoke fills the air, and it's gotten dark enough that all Canada can see is the lit end of a cigar and the faint outline of Cuba across from him. His skin, which glowed so wonderfully in the sun earlier, gently reflects the light from the street lamps below.

"-'Cuz I think you'd like El Gran Teatro a lot, you know? It's your kinda thing."

"It is?" he asks listlessly, mostly just talking to fill up space.

"Yeah," and even in the dark he can see the way Cuba shrugs noncommittally. "You're the only friend a' mine who likes that classy shit. I can remember that much, at least, even if I do get you confused with America sometimes."

Looking back, Canada can guess that that's where it started, at the _friend of mine._

The hand he was using to fan himself rests limply against the collar of his shirt. Canada feels the heat rise up again, cheeks redden, he knows, it's ridiculous, for all the time he's spent on this Earth and all the people he's known, it's Cuba's affection that stands out in his heat-warped mind.

There's warmth creeping up his neck, spreading through his chest. His fingers catch on the first few buttons of his shirt, hesitant.

"I didn't know you paid that much attention to me," says Canada, honestly.

"Why wouldn't I?" responds Cuba, incredulous. Canada watches him take a drag of his cigar; watches the flame fizzle with his breath, notices the way the muscles in his arms bulge with the slightest movement.

"I..." Canada pauses, unsure. The heat spreads even further, constricting his lungs, reaching his abdomen, leaving him breathless. He cannot help but swallow his insecurities and clumsily undos the first few buttons of his shirt.

There's a glimmer in the darkness as Cuba's eyes track the movement of his fingers, watching as a sliver of pink-tinted skin was revealed. A flash of amber, and Cuba's gaze is quickly back onto his face.

Canada swallows thickly, mouth suddenly very dry. He stands up awkwardly, deftly undoing the rest of the buttons before peeling the sweat-dampened shirt off of himself.

"Oh finally," Cuba snorts. "I was wondering when you'd take that shit off. Looked like you were fuckin' suffocating in there."

Canada looks down at him, left only in a too-small undershirt that clings to his body like a second skin and shorts.

"You didn't feel like telling me that I was a bit overdressed?" His voice is weak with disbelief, quiet in the noise of the night.

"I would've! But just telling you to take somethin' off would've sounded a lil weird," Cuba catches his eye, jovial and amused, the barest undercurrent of something desperate in his voice. "But, shit, take off as much as you want. Not like I care. Just don't want you dyin' on my property."

He's stiffly folding his shirt when he hears Cuba mutter something that sounds distinctly like _Hell, I'll even take it off for you_. He pauses, blood rushing in his veins. He clings onto his shirt like a lifeline, feeling the damp fabric against his clammy palms.

Canada turns to him fast enough to startle Cuba slightly.

"_What_?" His voice is soft, barely above a whisper. Excitement thrums underneath his skin, threatening to burst through. Cuba sputters, looking anywhere but at him.

Canada cannot help but step closer, in a daze. Cuba is tense: shoulders hunched, jaw set. He takes the cigar out of his mouth, tossing it into a nearby ashtray, eyes wide with fear, regret, uncertainty.

"I, uh..._coño,"_ Cuba curses. Canada fills the last bit of space between them, discarding his shirt somewhere on the floor where he could deal with it later. His skin burning with the tension of it all. Cuba finally, finally meets his eyes, and Canada goes weak at the knees.

"Yeah?" He's breathless, barely audible. There's only the slightest bit of space between them, hardly anything at all.

"That I'd, _fuck_, takeitoffforyou," the last part comes out in a breathless rush as Cuba grabbed Canada round the waist, strong hands pulling him onto his lap.

And, all at once, Canada is ignited.

Canada pushes their lips together, arms wrapping around Cuba's neck. Cuba's lips are nearly scalding, tasting of tobacco and cherry syrup, pressed with an almost-bruising force against his own.

There are hands trailing over his thighs, his sides, his back, leaving red-hot trails in their wake. Fingers play with the hem of his undershirt, slipping underneath to gently caress his stomach. Cuba's hands slip beneath his shirt, thumbs rubbing circles onto his fevered skin. There is a fire deep inside him, growing only larger with every breath, every touch they share.

Cuba awkwardly tugs his shirt off, knocking off his glasses along the way, before kissing and sucking at his neck; stubble rubbing harshly against the delicate flesh. Canada gasps, heat pooling in his loins. His trmbling hands move from Cuba's neck to his broad, strong shoulders, gripping tight. He grinds down on Cuba, hips moving of their own accord, feeling a rapidly-hardening bulge against his own.

"Oh, Cuba!" he gasps. Cuba inhales sharply, clutching at Canada's waist.

"If you're gonna do that, you might as well call me by my name," he mutters, voice rough and thick with lust. Cuba's gazing right into his eyes, now, their faces mere centimeters apart.

"Maximo," he says, at last, and it comes out as the softest thing. The name is a bit strange, the syllables falling clumsily over his English-trained tongue, but he forces it out anyways.

Cuba-Maximo, now-chuckles; whether at him or at his pronunciation, Canada doesn't know. Somewhere along the way, Canada's vision is filled with shades of black and brown and amber, and feels his name-his name, not his country's name-being said by Maximo, the vibrations from his voice sending shudders down Matthew's spine.

Matthew feels Maximo pressing against him, hot and heavy and eager. His hands trail downwards over Maximo's muscled chest and soft stomach, reaching the tent in his pants. Matthew feels the moisture evaporate from his mouth, feels blood rush downwards. Matthew wants, more than anything, to _have_ Maximo, to be as close as possible to him. Panting, he rubs a sweaty palm over the outline of Maximo's manhood, almost groping. He feels Maximo's grip on him become impossibly tight, thick fingers digging into his sides. He chuckles breathlessly, biting his lip as he fiddles with the zipper of Maximo's shorts. He pulls Maximo out, thick and heavy in his palm.

Maximo pulls away from his neck, hissing in desperation. Matthew gives him a clumsy kiss on the corner of his lips, before rubbing a thumb over the slit of Maximo's manhood. Maximo's hands come to rest at his hips, thumbs pressed flush against the edge of his hip bones. He strokes Maximo slowly, enveloping him in warm, steady pumps. Maximo's eyes are screwed shut, a reddened lip caught between his perfect teeth.

Matthew goes faster, tightening his grip, relishing in the groans coming out of Maximo's mouth.

"_Ay, Mateo, me va' a mata' si sigue' haciendo eso_," Maximo groans, tossing his head back, hips bucking up into Matthew's grip. The meaning of the words is lost on Matthew, but he appreciates it all the same, loving the way Maximo's voice lowers while speaking his native language. The only way he knows how to respond by catching Maximo's lips with his own, sliding their tongues together slow and careful.

Maximo's cock is practically dripping by now, beads of precum sticking to the palm of his hand. He speeds his hand up, using every moan and gasp as a way to deepen the kiss.

Matthew's arousal was almost painful, by now, stifled by the confining fabric of his pants, but all he could focus on was the way Maximo felt beneath him; the solid, strong muscle underneath warm flesh, the heave of his chest with every breath, the way his cock twitched every now and again.

Maximo was a longing he didn't know he had, a desire he was never aware of, but now that he had him he could not stop himself from falling headlong.

Maximo's hips stutter, muscles tensing and untensing, and Matthew can tell he's close. He gives Maximo one last sloppy, open-mouthed kiss, before pulling away from him. His pumps become frantic, fully intent on bringing Maximo over the edge.

Maximo cums into his hand, thrusting wildly and muttering a string of curses in Spanish. He grips Matthew's hips painfully tight, and Matthew's breath hitches in his throat, heart beating wildly. In a daze, he wipes his hands on his shorts, lets his arms hang limp around Maximo's neck.

Matthew sighs as he feels Maximo's lips on his neck, pressing gentle kisses onto the skin. A strong hand snakes between them, moving agonizingly slow from his hip, to his stomach, to finally his cock. Matthew _whimpers_ at the feeling, having been neglected for so long. Maximo made quick work of his zipper, pulling him out gently. Matthew cannot stop the cascade of moans spilling out his mouth. Maximo is warm and all-encompassing, embracing him, swallowing him whole. It doesn't take long for heat to pool in his stomach.

The heat builds, and finally, _finally_, releases. He comes with a strangled cry, shoving his face into the crook of Maximo's neck, inhaling the scent of cologne and tobacco and musk. Matthew's hands are still clinging to Maximo's shoulders when he comes back up for air, vision dotted with stars from the force of his orgasm.

The night air is still, quiet except for the sound of their breathing. Matthew rests his head on Maximo's shoulder, trying to remember how to breath properly. he can feel Maximo's heartbeat, relieved to hear that it's beating as fast as his. he could've fallen asleep right there, exhausted from the day's events, but a gentle hand nudges him and he begrudgingly straightened up.

"Ya came on my shirt," he hears Maximo mutter, and immediately Matthew feels a thousand apologies on the tip of his tongue, before looking up and noticing the way the corner's of Maximo's eyes were crinkling up in a smile. He instead giggles, feeling ridiculous giddy.

"'m sorry," he mutters in return. Maximo shrugs, nonchalant. Matthew stands weakly, giving Maximo enough space to strip. Matthew vaguely remembers his own stained clothing, and shimmies out of his already ruined shorts. He's left in only his boxers, but considering what just happened, he has no reason to be embarrassed now.

"I didn't know you had that in you," remarks Maximo casually, voice muffled behind his shirt.

"I didn't know either. Maybe I was saving it for you the entire time," It comes out before he can even think about what he's saying, an honest rush. And it's true; in all his years, he'd never thrown himself at someone else because of the _temperature_.

Maximo pulls the rest of his shirt off, laughing loudly. Matthew feels his heart flutter, glad that two centuries worth of friendship weren't ruined by a single night of passion.

Maximo grabs him again, pulling him snugly against him. The feel their chests pressed together, skin-to-skin, was nearly euphoric. Maximo rubs his hands over his body again, but slower, softly, more gentle. He flicks the band of Matthew's boxers, making him jump.

"You better not still be hot. You're practically fuckin' naked now."

"No, I'm not," responds Matthew, between bouts of laughter. He gives Maximo one more kiss, chaste and gentle. He lets one hand find the end of Maximo's ponytail, absentmindedly twirling one of the dreadlocks. A cool breeze passes as they savor the moment, looking out into the sights and sounds of La Habana.


End file.
